


Story Of My Life

by Grinner_H



Series: 15 a Piece Prompt Challenge [3]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 23:10:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6446011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For her prompt : <i>Take any VF character typically put on a pedestal by another character and have him die. Have someone who admired him find out a lot of truths about him that makes him human to them.</i></p><p>For Prompt #25 - <i>Lost and Found</i> (selected by <b><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida">Ash</a></b> from <b><a href="http://insane-1.deviantart.com/art/200-Writing-Challenge-68163506">200 Writing Challenge</a></b>).</p>
    </blockquote>





	Story Of My Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunflower1343](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower1343/gifts).



> For her prompt : _Take any VF character typically put on a pedestal by another character and have him die. Have someone who admired him find out a lot of truths about him that makes him human to them._
> 
> For Prompt #25 - _Lost and Found_ (selected by **[Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida)** from **[200 Writing Challenge](http://insane-1.deviantart.com/art/200-Writing-Challenge-68163506)** ).

You remember the funeral.

Smoke from candles, incense sticks, cigarettes; filling a grand hall from corner to corner. The drone of quiet conversation. A lone, polished casket amid a sea of black suits. 

A roomful of people who didn't _care._

You remember thinking, _He died alone._

—

You hate remembering these kinds of things.

Stupid little things like those times - way back when you were just a boy, when you were just his valet - when you'd sit in a chair that was too damn big for you by the table with the tea set, watching him work in silence. 

You used to think that this room was too huge, too intimidating. That you - too short and too small for your age - were never gonna learn to grow into it, to fill it out. _Command_ it the way _he_ always did, even when he was doing nothing. 

But here you are right now, seated behind the large, rosewood desk in his office, filling out the plush leather armchair the way you fill out your impeccable suit - all this empty space pressing down on you as if the floor and the ceiling were both rushing to meet, like lovers reunited.

He never liked sitting at this desk.

That's not something he'd ever told you. You figured it out on your own, the way you learned most things about him through clever guesses and quiet observation.

He never really talked about himself, just as he never really said anything while he worked - perusing sheets of paper from manila folders in his armchair by the window.

You used to wonder, in those small moments of stolen glances outside that window, if he wished to be free.

You used to think that this room couldn't get any quieter.

But it has.

You've avoided coming in here for thirteen days. You've never been certain if it was because you were too damn sad or too fucking terrified. And the truth is, you're no more certain _now,_ tracing grainy patterns inlaid upon a wooden tabletop, the weight of an entire organization bearing down upon you.

It's distinctly uncomfortable, sitting at this strangely bare desk, in this abnormally sparse room. It's as if he was never here, as if he never existed. 

As if _they_ don't want you to remember him.

There's no rustle of papers, no scritch of a busy pen, no rapid click of laptop keys. 

There is only silence.

—

And then, there's a book.

You find it in the upper right-hand drawer of his office desk. A plain, black notebook. Its cover bears no inscription. Its edges are worn, its hue faded. A book that's seen many days - possibly _years_ \- of use. 

For a moment, you wonder why it's been left there. 

For a moment, you're afraid to open it. 

—

The first page is a sentence written in black ink and his fine script. 

_You changed me._

Beneath it is a square piece of white cloth, frayed at the edges.

When you run your fingertips over the softness of it, you realize that it's part of a bandage.

—

It isn't a diary. It isn't a photo album or a notebook.

It's just… a _collection_ of things, really. Things you never realized he'd collected through all those years of his life. 

Lyrics. Quotes. You recognize some of them - from movies, from famous people, from books and songs.

Pictures - some of them taken, some of them printed, some of them torn out of a magazine, clipped from a newspaper. 

A sketch of a cat - the exact replica of one you'd carved for him for his thirtieth birthday. You never knew he could draw. You never knew so many things about him.

There's a single photo of him as a child. You're not sure how old he was when it was taken, but he couldn't have been more than six. A picture of him with his father. A picture of him with _yours._ Smiles and smiles and smiles. 

You hate that photo in an instant. Hate how happy everyone looks. Hate how they look nothing like a family.

—

One of the pages is entirely blacked out. 

Looking at it petrifies you and it isn't hard to figure out why. It's like staring into the depths of an abyss, gazing into the unknown. And it leaves you feeling cold and empty and numb all over. 

There's nothing scarier, you realize, than not understanding the things you are forced to face.

—

On the opposite page are the words, _I am not afraid._

One sentence in the middle of all that blank, white space. One sentence floating on the surface of dimmed darkness. 

You wonder what he was feeling when he wrote this. Was he emboldened? Resolute? Ashamed? 

Or was he simply _afraid?_

And you suddenly realize, that in the time you've known him, you've never seen him cry.

—

You wonder if the wells of his eyes were as dry as the ink upon these pages. But his heart shouldn't - _couldn't_ \- have been. 

There's unrolled cigarette paper glued to a page like a pressed flower. He never smoked cigarettes. He only always smoked his kiseru. 

A torn out page from what you assume was a storybook. The passage on it begins with _Dear friend…_

There is a picture of a diamond earring. One of Mr. Mistoffelees. One of two men holding hands, silhouetted in the setting sun. Another of a woman dressed as a stereotypical angel - white dress, white wings - standing upon a lake that's surrounded by barren trees. 

You recognize that photo. You've seen her on one of Akihito's t-shirts. 

—

He'd saved all of Akihito's messages. Those ridiculous texts and emails - printed and stuck to the thin pages of this strange book, like snippets of some kinda crazy life. 

Akihito talked about all kinds of things. About the rising sun. About the song he heard while he was stuck in traffic. About the prissy cunt he wanted to strangle because she got off on being difficult and all he wanted was to just _go **home** already._

These are stories you've heard before. He used to read you these messages, knowing that they made you smile. 

Now all you wanna do is cry.

—

There's a series of numbers on one of the pages. They don't make much sense at first, until you recognize the initial four digits on the top right corner.

_0618._

_June 18._

The day you made your first kill. 

And you remember it - the blood on your shoes and the violent tremble in your bones. Disbelief. Adrenaline. _Excitement._

You remember the despair in his eyes, the way he looked at you like he couldn't accept what you've become. 

The way he looked at you like he failed you.

—

It's been six weeks. 

Six weeks since he passed away, and you're here in Tokyo, sitting on Akihito's too-comfortable couch, drinking his ill-prepared tea. Reminiscing like two old men in a lonely bar on a Thursday night. _These times, these great times, these crazy times._

It feels like so long ago. 

So long since he was alive, too damn long since you could laugh without control. It sounds foreign, your laughter - even to your own ears. This loud, bitter, raspy thing that kinda scares you into shutting up. 

_"Ten years,"_ you tell Akihito, pulling a face that's half-concealed by your teacup. "Ten years and this still tastes god-fucking- _awful._ "

Akihito reclines in his armchair, stretches his legs out and crosses one ankle over the other. "Fucking _showoff._ Excuse _me_ for not being a fucking _tea connoisseur._ " His grin is part feral, part dark amusement. "Ten years and _you're_ still a little shit."

It's the same old goodnatured ribbing. The same old script. You should be tired of this, but you aren't, not really. Not when it's Akihito you're bantering with. And you suddenly feel like you understand how Fei Long must have felt.

You set your cup down upon the low coffee table, reach into the backpack by your side and draw out that notebook, which you - somewhat hesitantly - hand over to Akihito. "My uncle… he would have wanted you to have this."

Akihito reaches for the book, eyebrows raised in apparent surprise. His consequent smile is both fond and melancholic. "It's the first time I've heard you call him that."

You bite on your lower lip, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "It's the first time I've ever said it."

It feels strange. _Out of place,_ like the missing shoulder holster beneath your jacket, the missing gun by your side. "I've always thought of him as my master, my teacher, my boss. Someone I had to - _wanted to_ \- protect."

Akihito holds your gaze, empathy evident in his bright hazel eyes. "He _was_ all those things, Tao. As much as he was - _is_ \- your family."

"I know," you acknowledge quietly, fingers curling tight against your knees. "It's just… he grew more distant, y'know? Especially when I - " 

_When I killed. When I became what he tried to keep me from becoming. When I chose to walk the path he did._

It's hard to say all those things, but Akihito seems to hear them anyway.

He begins thumbing through the book. "He was just trying to protect you, Tao. In his own way." Akihito looks at you with a steely gaze, and there is only truth in it. "You were more precious to him than anyone else."

You hate how your laugh sounds so much like a sob. "I know that too."

It doesn't make sense. None of this _does,_ really - the way everything feels so right and so fucked up at the same time. You sit on the edge of that couch, watching Akihito flip through pages of the book, watching the way his expression gradually softens, the way his eyes dance and cloud over with mirth and melancholia and memory. 

Akihito turns to a page in the middle, runs his fingers over the words written on it in Fei Long's elegant hand. It's a line from a song you've heard once or twice before. 

_Since you left, catching my breath is harder. And I miss you._

"This is about Asami," Akihito declares; like he's certain, like he _knew_ what Fei Long was thinking when he wrote it, like he's privy to a past even _you_ don't know about. 

He sighs in a way that sounds incredibly sad. As if all the regrets of the world were contained within that single exhalation. "I guess he never really stopped loving him."

And that's when it hits you. 

That somewhere between _back then_ and _right now,_ somewhere between the first and final pages of this book, you learned to _know_ him - to _understand_ him. "I used to _worship_ him, Akihito. When I was just a kid, I thought that - no matter what he did - he'd never stop being perfect in my eyes. But he was just a _man,_ y'know? He'd gone from being _Fei-sama_ to just _Fei Long_ in my head 'cause he's only a man like you and me. Flaws, fuckery, and all."

You reach for the book and turn to its final page, tapping two fingers on it in emphasis. "And he loved _you._ "

Akihito's eyes widen perceptibly. A huge smile - his genuine, blinding, _Akihito_ smile - blooms beautifully across his face. 

On that page is a photo, taken by Akihito during your sixteenth birthday. 

And you remember that moment. Fei Long's loud protest at having his photo taken. Akihito holding Fei Long in a semi-headlock to keep him from escaping. And you - sixteen and already taller than they were - popping up behind them, your arms around their shoulders, mouth wide open in a too-loud smile.

Bordering that photo are these words - _You set me free._

You love that photo. You love how messed up he looks, how utterly _normal._

You love how much all of you look like a family.

—

"I heard you left the Bái Shé," Akihito mentions, seemingly nonchalant, while you're pulling on your shoes in the _genkan._ Like he hasn't been meaning to ask since you showed up at his apartment.

You straighten and look him square in the eyes, adjusting the strap of your backpack on your shoulder. "He never wanted this life for me, Akihito. I couldn't honor his wishes while he lived. I shall do so in his death."

Akihito places a reassuring hand on your shoulder before pulling you into a crushing hug. "Hey," he says, voice thick with emotion. "You know that wherever it is you're going, you've got a place to return to, don't you?"

You can't help but smile. It's so like Akihito to worry about things like that. "I could never forget it, Aki."

Akihito chuckles; this warm, comforting thing that sounds like home. He breaks the embrace and ruffles your hair. "Alright, brat." Then, this serious look, like caution. Like _love._ "You take care of yourself, kid."

Never mind that you're the age he was when you first met. Never mind that - somewhere between painful truths and hardened resolutions, between a sheltered childhood and growing the fuck _up_ \- you left _kid_ behind a long time ago.

You nod at him and head toward the door. "Will do." Then you stop. Turn around. You run fingers through your hair. Scratch your chin. _Awkward,_ like you haven't got a clue what to do with your hands. "Sometimes I get mad at him, y'know. For leaving me behind. For not even living to see fucking _forty._ " Your chuckle is frustrated and cynical - nothing at all like Akihito's. "Sometimes I think he just… _stopped caring._ That he just… _gave up._ "

Akihito shakes his head. His smile is gentle, but his eyes are hard. "He didn't give up on you, Tao. I guess he figured he'd done all he needed to. That he was all he could've been."

He steps toward you and grabs you firmly by the shoulders, holds your gaze like he's trying to burn his message into the depths of your brain. "I think he let go because he _trusted_ you. He knew he didn't have to guide you anymore."

—

Outside, the air is disturbingly still. 

The streets are silent, but for the cadence of your footsteps upon the asphalt. 

You think about Akihito and his light which never dims. You think about the comradeship he taught you, through forgiveness and strength of bonds. 

You think about the organization - the _family_ \- you left behind. You think about duty and honor, of inheritance and responsibility, and of the father you never knew. 

You think about Yoh and his independence. The importance of making choices. You think about returning to Taiwan, about catalysts and old ghosts.

And you think about Fei Long. 

Fei Long, who showed you love and graciousness and respect. Fei Long, who taught you resilience through hardship and loyalty to the ones that matter. Fei Long, who loved deeply and buried his pain; just so he could spare you from it.

You think about quotes and lyrics and sketches and broken CD fragments. You think about unrolled cigarette paper and blacked out pages and wounds which never healed. 

And you think about a man who lived his whole life in a cage, and a photo that spoke of friendship and freedom.

And you think, _He wasn't alone._


End file.
